(de)Forté: A Tale of Love and War
by QuinnLark
Summary: Revolution has come at last to the world, and the tides of war cannot be parted for even the most violent of passions. A story of the Enlightenment, the Revolution, and love.
1. The Tower

He is in me, and we are one. We swing and roll and set spin to the motionless world, as first I then he, then I once more own the high-ground of our lovemaking. I've felt his breath on my skin, the fire of the dragon inside him come to claim me. I sought a protector, and the gods sent me a savage—a beautiful, perfect monster—who owns my heart and soul now as well as my body. He is nothing civilized, nothing cultured and refined, but he is a warrior. He's killed for me; he'll kill again.

But not now. Now, he is mine, and I show him the truth of it with the wetness between my legs, and the drag of my fingernails in his flesh and muscled back. Tomorrow he may perish, and this night might be his last, and even if there were a million rubies and opals to give in my stead, I could not part from him with less than the totality of my being surrendered to his.

Meek lords and ladies dance in the ballroom just beyond these walls as a cello plays a sharp and scathing melody, calling my sin for what it is. I don't mind. Let the whole earth know I've made my bed with the man I love.

I've found my place in this world: beneath the strong tower he is built from.


	2. The Prelude

Author's note: Some of the titles in this story exist in British history and aristocracy. I own none of them, and this is purely a work of fiction, not intended to portray those in possession of the current title or their ancestors.

Warning: Emotional rocket-ship about to launch. Proceed with caution.

Q

The Prelude - 1774

I am ever the martyr. The soles of my feet bleed with the soul in my chest, as I amble barefoot round and round the pebbled walk under the towering stones of Sparrowwood Manor. They've taken him—the gods—my dearest little son, and I am lost, without air or sun or breath.

He was my light for those short months I carried him within my womb, and shorter still, the weeks he nestled in my arms and suckled at my breast. My lord and husband, Garrett Upton the fifth Earl of Carlisle, cannot bring himself to look upon my face, for when he does, he sees only glimpses of the past. And what a heartbreaking past it is.

For him. For me. For us all. His son and heir is dead and gone and buried in the moor beside the ancestors who came and went before him.

We haven't played the love story; there is nothing sentimental amongst us or the arrangement of our marriage. But what it was meant for—that very beautiful little boy—has died with him. His Grace will never forgive me the crime of a dead son, and I'll not forgive myself.

There are whispers about—quiet murmurs of where and how I'll be set aside for one of his mistresses. I don't doubt them, but I also find that I cannot seem to care. I'd give Lord Carlisle his freedom if I could bring myself to grant it. Let me fall from the towers high above and be laid beside my boy. I need only a push, for I haven't the courage to end it myself.

"What shall become of me, M'Lord?" I ask, staring without seeing into the flames of a fire much too hot and out of place in the English summer, but I know my husband feels the same chill of death as I. It chases after us daily, a shadow keeping pace with our footfall and creeping along with the light of nature and man. And now I—or this deathly shadow—have tracked blood into the house, across thousand pound sterling carpets and heirlooms of the Lords and Ladies Carlisle, and the servants scramble to clean it up in the wake of my tattered feet and black, mud-splattered mourning gown.

My husband raises tired eyes, noticing my presence for the first time since I've entered the house—maybe for the first time in months—and drops them without care back to his glass of Scottish whiskey. He drinks nearly as often as I, and in almost as large a quantity. But not quite. I've got him beat on that, I'm certain.

"I've asked His Majesty to grant permission for you to leave Court and take up residence with your sister in Philadelph—"

"The Colonies!" I exclaim, forgetting myself as I've forgotten all too often as of late. "You can't be serious…Your Grace." I slip the last bit in for good measure. I play with fire at each word, and none will further my case if I deny him my barest of manners and place.

And what is my place? A quiet life, residing in the rooms above, while my husband begets bastard heirs to his land and titles? The titles which cannot pass to our daughter, the Lady Liza Upton, and her father hardly knows she is alive as it is.

My chin quivers with the weighted tremble of defeat. Because that is my fate—defeat.

"You'll go!" He bellows, standing with sudden ardor and fury, more so than I've ever witnessed from him in all our married years. "You leave within a fortnight, and I'll never look upon you again. Farewell, Lady Carlisle."

Philadelphia, six months later

The chilled air of Pennsylvania is not unlike England. It's cold and gray in the late autumn months, and the leaves change colors same as their cousins in the British countryside. But everything else is different.

While I remain the Countess of Carlisle, my life is nothing like before. There I was wife and mother, with a place and position in the world and society. Here, I outrank the whole of the land, but none care or bother with it, and my estranged husband has sent our daughter to boarding school in Paris. I wept for a month when I received word of his decision to send her to France instead of to her own mother. She is far from me, but near always in my heart, and I can take solace in the hope that she is cared for somewhere, by someone.

There is a piquancy of freedom to this madness, a flavor I've not tasted on my lips in all my years. And I cannot spit it from my mouth. Not for all the gold and status in all the world. It's mine.


	3. ThE Enlightened

Author's Note: Same old, same old; I thank you in advance for ignoring mistakes and enjoying the story and reviewing, of course. ;-)

Q

The Enlightened

Philadelphia, 1775

"Should man not use his own mind to reason and find truth? All men are equally endowed with life, but not rights! Are we to bow our head while our backs break under the weight of taxes and unjust governance?"

I've heard that voice before, too many times at these gatherings, and here it is again, invading my gambling and laughter and the pleasurable company of the men surrounding me. And still, I've yet to place a face or name to the voice I'm all too familiar with.

The players at our table roll their eyes and rumble their grievances in bouts of "that damn young Cullen," or "goddamn that rebel son of a whore!" But, alas, I've found a name to call that voice. Cullen: Rooted in Ireland, to be certain, but Americanized in its new world home.

"I say," I hear my voice speaking of its own accord and whim. "Whoever is this Cullen fellow? I hear him speaking his philosophy at these galas, and yet can never seem to place him in the society circles beyond these. However does he get into places like this? He speaks rather highly for someone lowborn, if he is indeed the son of a whore as you suggest."

Silence meets my query, and several heartbeats pelt my breast as a foreign breath tickles the satin tie at my neck.

"I'd bet high with a Queen of Diamonds hand like yours," the Cullen-voice speaks softly. Gooseflesh pimples my back and shoulders and arms in a wave as violent as those on the Atlantic crossing. He's announced cards to the table that I do not hold in my hand, though I'm unsure if this is to help with the bluff I had going or to suggest something much more sinful. I'm not sure which I'd prefer.

Like the striking of a match, the room comes back to life, and the moment is lost to all but us.

"Lady Carlisle," Mr. Jefferson addresses me, "May I present Mr. Edward Cullen of Boston, Massachusetts. Mr. Cullen, the Countess of Carlisle."

Mr. Cullen's bow is graceful and deep, but green eyes the color of the North Sea never leave mine. "Lady Carlisle," he says majestically, coming out of his bow and placing a kiss lightly on the backs of my knuckles. "The pleasure is all mine, I'm sure."

"Boston?" I ask, waving to a passing footman for more champagne. Mr. Cullen stands, as do all the men in the room, as we converse.

"That's right, Countess," he answers. Slipping into his pocket the hand which only a moment ago held my own.

"I hear they have an awful lack of tea there…" Laughter ripples throughout the room, and I sip the bubbling drink until my cheeks tingle in delight of the alcohol and the joke. He merely grins, knowing and seeing much more than he says. "I do apologize, Mr. Cullen," I finally say. "I'm sure it's no laughing matter to lose all the city's tea to the harbor like that."

Mr. Cullen bows again, only slightly this time, in surrender to my position and humor at his expense. "Not at all, m'lady. We rather learned to enjoy the flavor of coffee a bit more."

"They say the Sons of Liberty, and not the savages, tossed the tea into the sea. Is that true?" I ask, direct and pointed.

He smiles again—a gentle tilt of thin lips I'm quickly becoming accustomed to—and shifts ever so slightly from one foot to the other. A tell. "I'm sure I wouldn't know, Lady Carlisle."

"Hmm," I hum in feigned boredom, though I'm surely anything but. "Well, you've announced my cards to the table, haven't you? I suppose I should take some air around the gardens. What do you say to a walk, Misters Jefferson and Cullen?"

"I'd not protest the idea," says Jefferson.

"Nor I," Cullen agrees.

"That'd be a first," Jefferson quips, and I open the black lace fan I've brought along to hide the smile playing at my lips.

The gardens are cool and hushed, quite the opposite of the crowded, stuffy room we left behind, and the scent of roses lift on the gentle Pennsylvania breeze. The men walk stoically slow, hands clasped behind their backs in a gentlemanly manner, as I glide with grace under the mountains of shifts and skirts - silks of gold, satins of royal blue, and ivory lace. Though I feel the waddling cow, I know, happily, I play the lovely little lamb. I'd consider it a cruel joke to force oneself into the boning and ties of a corset if I hadn't lived life strapped into one thus far, but for all my years of training my lungs to breathe only half their capacity, and my stomach to be satisfied on morsels fit for sparrows, I still find difficulty in keeping a steady pace. If the men notice, they never say.

"Mr. Cullen," I say, after we've taken a turn about the grounds in silence, "I've heard your rhetoric on several occasions now." I see the flash of argument in his strange eyes, but he holds his tongue. "These thoughts are quite odd."

"On the contrary, Lady Carlisle," he counters with confidence. "The world is in the midst of a great awakening - a lifting of the veil of religion and oppression, if you will." Jefferson's grin is not hidden well.

I hum my feigned disinterest. "Pray tell, who was your tutor? Surely you didn't arrive at these conclusions on your own."

Cullen stills beside a bush blooming with fragrant, crimson late spring roses. "I was not blessed to have a private tutor, m'lady," he answers, plucking a single rose from its bed and lifting it to his nose before offering it up to me. "My mother was a fine teacher."

Now, I am shocked. "No tutor, really?" I turn to Jefferson to make reason from this madness. "He is teasing me, isn't he?

"I'm afraid not, Isabella." My eyes flash in warning before a peal of laughter floats from my throat. Jefferson and I have known each other for so long - even when an ocean separated us - and he was once to be my brother. He and my sister meant to marry, but times changed hearts and minds.

"Thomas, really. Anyway, Mr. Cullen, I am utterly shocked that you had no tutor, nor formal training. You speak eloquently enough..."

"For a man so lowborn, you mean?" He asks, and I feel heat rising to my cheeks.

"Quite so," I answer, feeling less at ease with my own judgements now than I was moments ago. Silence stretches between our party, silence and then a rumble of chuckles. "Do I sound as pompous aloud as I do in my head?"

"Surely not, Countess," Cullen counters, offering his arm as we turn back to the roses. "Certainly not."

Even the light of day, receding to the dusk of nights cannot hide the way his eyes shine when they met mine before gracing the flowers with their beauty. Something terrifying is happening here. And I'm more thrilled than I've been in years.


	4. The Refrain

**The Refrain**

Philadelphia, May 1775

The strangest thing happens to ones world and truths when, so immersed in the pretenses your own infallibility, we ceases to consider the magnitude of the human will. The endless cycle of life continues: men make gods, gods rule men, men rebel, and men make new gods. A bit of revolution does the soul well, salve to a bruised spirit, but too much can drown the fragile system.

Previously, I'd not allowed a thought for those in revolt of the King, and perhaps I continue to shield my eyes to the disillusionment around me. I am ever a countess, a sworn subject of the Crown, and silly rebellions are little more than a buzzing fly I swat away from my face and powdered hair. Truly, I'd prefer to never think of the fighting which began less than a month ago, nor its boils and pus, infected and pouring from the wounded colonies.

Yet, it was never so very easily put aside than in times like these—my reprieve—an orchestra of peace, hiding me away in its bosom of sound.

A sudden, sharp note of the violin pierces the still air like a musket shot, and it's begun—both outside in the countryside and the hearts of the rebelling compatriots, and within this great hall. The flute and the cello join the soirée, and the streets fill with marching boots, echoing on cobblestone roads. The clarinet and piano are summoned in the midst of erupting discord just beyond the gold and cream walls, voices raised in riotous union.

I absorb it all as if the world won't crumble away beneath my feet. For if I permit myself to surrender a moment to the notion that life as I've always known it may be upheaved, I shall never resurface from the idea.

My four-and-twenty years seem but a blur in a dingy mirror of reflection as I look to the past. Wife for seven years, mother for six, I cannot remember what it was like to be alone. I've never been companionless, not in all those years, but I am very much alone now.

Renee, my elder sister, and her husband, Sir Charles Swan, took up residence in Philadelphia before I could lace my own shoes, and she is little more than an absent acquaintance to me. She breakfasts alone in her room, luncheons with friends, and though I'm at times invited, I seldom find the thought of ladies so matured in years to be enjoyable company. Dinner is the only time we spend together, my sister and I, and even then the occasion is rarer and rarer. She does not approve of the associations I keep.

None are lords and ladies, and though all are of a certain high standard of familial ranking, most are adulterers, gamblers, blasphemers, or those "terrible humanists," as they've been so aptly named by my dear sister. They're called names by Renee, and they call each other names even more so. All enjoy the imagined honor of combat—whichever side they're on–but I don't play their war games. None question me, or my status as a loyal subject of King George.

The orchestra plucks the strands of their instruments with practiced ease, gracefully pressing bows over strings until the room fills with melodies and harmonies, but it sings only for me. Harmony is the opposite of melody, yet, on its own, the sound is bitter and unruly. I, on my own, am biting and wayward. The loneliness seeps through the marrow of my bones, and nothing can be done to ease my suffering. My son was torn from my by the spirits, my daughter sent nearly as far, and I grow numb to the world pressing the steel of war into my jugular.

"Ah, Lady Carlisle," a boisterous salutation rings through a crowded hallway at the intermission. Mrs. Jane Brunholdt is a sight sillier than any I've beheld in my months in the Colonies. Attempting the fashions of the Europeans has failed her, and I'm hard pressed to still my tongue from telling her so. She rouges her cloud-pale cheeks so tremendously, I've oftentimes wondered if she isn't of the walking dead. Nevertheless, I curtsey in the slightest of acknowledgments as she and her husband, a German man of abundant wealth and as much weight padding his bulging middle, near.

"Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Brunholdt," I greet the couple. He stands like a toad on a lillypad, mouth hanging ajar and hungry for another meal, while she flutters about both of us with the temperament of a mad dragonfly. They test my patience with each passing second. "How are you enjoying the symphony?" Though society dictates I remain polite and poised, I know the quickest way free of the unwanted attentions of Felix and Jane Brunholdt is to converse lightly and excuse myself as quickly as possible.

"It's ravishing, really," Mrs. Brunholdt raves with her most favorite of words. Everything is _ravishing_ in her own mind. "Do you not agree, Husband?"

"Indeed," he commends. "Ravishing, quite so."

I've not been in their presence but two minutes, and already I could cry of boredom and the wanting of escape. I open the ivory fan in my hand with the flick of a wrist, and flutter it about. "It's been lovely," I lie, "but I must return to my box. Good day to y—"

"Oh, but Countess," the toad-man interrupts my flight. "I meant to congratulate you on your lord husband's commission!"

Words falter on my tongue for the briefest moment before I regain my composure. We may be estranged, but I do so hate that he's permitting himself to take up arms in this ghastly war. The words aren't news to me, since I received word from my husband only yesterday—a short missive to say he's taken a post as General in His Majesty's Royal Army. It's little more than another title to decorate his ego as he dressed and decorated me before I was set aside like a doll he'd grown tired of. Anger is a bitter taste on my tongue, even now that a year has passed since I buried my child and our marriage began to degenerate.

"I'm sure the Lady Carlisle is pleased with His Lord's decisions," the voice of the dear Mr. Jefferson rescues me. "Pray excuse us." He turns me toward the grand staircase and urges me forward.

We reach my balcony box in silence, and I show no emotion until the doors and heavy velvet curtain are drawn behind us. "Oh, Thomas," I sob from a place hidden deep behind my ribs. "What is happening here?" I demand. "Why are you encouraging this bloody fiasco? I already have a dead son, and soon I may have a dead husband as well!"

"Isabella," he shushes me with a gentle hum, and lifts a hanky to my cheeks, missing one tear as it rolls down my chin and falls to my violet gown. "You haven't yet grasped the fullness of liberty, my dear. Once you've known its savor, there will be no return."

"You are a traitor to the Crown, you know, with your beliefs?" I only half meant the words. My oldest friend could never be a true traitor in my eyes. He simply had priorities in his life which I could not share.

"Only in the eyes of some, Isabella," he admits. "But I'm not here to discuss rebellion, nor your husband."

"No, no, Thomas," I say and dry my eyes. "Your precious _Congress_ is to convene. I do hear the local gossip, you know?"

"Indeed, and I mean to petition for a semblance of peace, but, alas, this is not the reason for my presence here and now."

"Then why?" I ask.

"I've inquired into the wellness of Lady Liza—" my heart seizes as the air between us holds my daughter's name "—and I believe it possible to bring her back to you. That is," he continued, "if you'll permit me."

So full of jubilation, I laugh aloud and draw the eyes of those in the seats below. "Permit you?" I wonder. "I'd be disappointed if I didn't believe you've already begun planning her voyage!"

"He certainly has," a sure, beautiful Irish-Bostonian voice greets from the door of my box. Two months have come and gone since last I'd seen Mr. Edward Cullen, but he remains as striking as my memory recalls. And even now, there is a notable difference in his appearance: a blue coat with pewter buttons dresses his person, and an officer's sword is sheathed at his waist.

"I see you're playing their children's games," I acknowledge his uniform, and turn my eyes, though not my attention, back to Jefferson. "Has he even seen his twentieth year? A lieutenant, Thomas, really?" I question. "You men are ready to slay dragons, or yourselves be slain, I see."

Jefferson covers his mouth to hide a smile. "Young Cullen here is twenty-one already, and my personal escort to Congress. His commander has been gracious enough to allow him into my services."

I want to say something scathing; I want to dismiss the proud Patriot and my friend as traitors and the lowest forms of vermin; I want a many number of things, but as Mr. Cullen bows in gallantry before me and brushes a kiss above the emerald on my finger, I've no will to hold to those wants. Maybe later.

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Author's note: We will have regular Sunday evening updates. Thanks for reading and reviewing. Enjoy! xo Quinn


	5. The Battleborn

Author's note: Are you ready for some heat?

xo!

Happy Sunday!

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 **The Battleborn**

June 1775

The resonance is at first but an echo—sound bouncing off trees and blades of summer grass and whispering back. The closer I listen, the louder the secrets become, holding steadfast within the winds. Rattling distant and clashing swords, the pounding of horses hooves, and the rumbling of cannons accent the reverberations across the space of nothingness between hades and myself.

I lift my eyes from their disturbed and restless slumber to the luster of the moon, luminous and full, intruding into the room. This is a moon to guide campaigns; a heavenly body to grace death. They say the sun brings the carnage of wars, but it is this very moon beneath which battles are born. And they are born again, and reborn still; washed in the blood of gods and men.

The bedding is heavy and tangles with my legs as I rise. Once free, though, I move as a ghost in the cottony softness of my shift, my raven hair tumbling behind me like a blanket of eventide. The wooden floor groans cold and angry as my feet harass its midnight, and the walk to the window takes both eternities and seconds. I know I'll see the fire of musket shots, and the collapse of pine and birch as cannon balls tear through their hearts; I'll witness the surrendered souls of men slip through the boughs.

But it is not so.

Nothing but stillness and the eery silence of night.

A light rap of sure knuckles at my door splinters the darkness and draws my bewitched attention, and all at once my heart is pulsing in my throat and my stomach has taken up residency in my toes.

I knew he would come.

One week earlier

"I daresay, gentlemen, that this olive branch of yours should do quite nicely." I am full of both hope for peace and the bubbles of champagne Thomas had delivered from France. It is the first of many dinner parties in the home of my beloved sister, on the outskirts of Philadelphia, as she and Sir Charles departed for the countryside on an extended holiday. "You wish to remain my countrymen, and I salute your resolution. A toast to my dear friend, Mr. Jefferson, and all the members of this gallant Congress of yours! Bravo, men. Bravo, I say!"

The misters Jefferson, S. and J. Adams, Paine, Cullen, Dickinson, Franklin, Hancock, and Chase raise their glasses in unison, though not all drink. Revelry is lost on Mr. John Adams, amongst others, for he believes this Olive Branch Petition of theirs a wasted effort. Effort it is, but wasteful … I pray not. Not now, when Liza is so soon to be with me. Even now, she may be boarding a ship to sail the vast Atlantic; I can not bear it if further bloodshed beats her to these shores.

"War with England is inevitable, Lady Carlisle," Mr. Adams proclaims, enjoying the duck my husband's money bought, but not the conversation I've brought to the table.

"This isn't true, is it, Mr. Jefferson?" I ask, sipping more of the tangy wine. Silence befalls the gathering, and I raise my eyes to seek out my true confidant. Or so I've come to believe. He stares mutely at his plate, and I'm paid the dues of misplaced trust in a man I've seen as a brother even after his engagement to my sister was broken. "Thomas?" I beg, terror sinking through the pores of my flesh.

"Lady—" he begins.

"Countess," I interrupt, indignation simmering too close to the surface to be well contained. I'm but a kettle of boiling water, whistling in protest of whatever truths they've deemed real.

"Very well," Thomas nods in surrender, lifting his glass to his lips before continuing. "Countess, I'm afraid I've little comfort to offer."

I push back from the table, standing quickly in spite of the dress about me. The men rise, gentlemen even in the moment I wish to see them as dogs. Before I turn away and march through the mahogany doors, I declare with a heart of iron. "Let it be known that I am the Countess of Carlisle, and I will harbor no traitors, nor breathe the breath of treason against King George III. If it is war you seek, you'll not find it here. Good night, gentlemen."

I lack destination, but my legs carry me on wings of indigo silk skirts well past the gardens of Pennsylvania peonies and don't stop until my feet meet the roots and shrub of the trees bordering the Swan land. Half-country and half-city, the escapes are unlimited. Limitless until the voice of Mr. Cullen halts the retreat I seek, however.

"The night is unsafe, Countess," he says with gentle ease, treating me as a skittish foal. I suppose he is not incorrect in his assumptions of my behavior.

He'll not see the surrender I feel brimming in my eyes; I won't allow that weakness in me. Propriety has escaped me once tonight, and it shan't happen again. "Colonel Cullen, I beg you return to the house. I prefer my solitude."

"Lady Carlisle—" his voice is a breath away now "—I cannot tell you what the coming months will bring. Political tides change quicker than the sea. Old men send young men to fight their wars."

"Aren't you the hypocrite, Colonel." Laughter bubbles from my throat in spite of the turbulence within. "A man dressed in the blue of his revolution, claiming innocence of it all."

"I claim nothing, your ladyship," he counters, "except that I desire as much peace as you, though surely a peace of a different sort."

The night air whips the curls at my neck and kisses my cheeks with its chilled lips, but I turn to him—to this young visionary—and raise the question. "A sort where you separate yourself from your sovereign ruler? You desire independence, and so expect the king to deliver it up. Is this the peace you seek, sir? For I can recall no other reason you've ever made me privy to that might justify such a claim."

He and Jefferson dwelt in the neighboring manor a fortnight, and have now taken up temporary quarter in two of the many spare rooms of the Swan home even this very night. I'd wished the companionship of my dear friend as he and his fellow delegates … delegated, but the young Cullen came with him—a package, so to speak—as his escort to the Continental Congress. Where Thomas went, there was Cullen.

And I've learnt much of him over the time we've spent in association. He was introduced to Thomas by Mr. Adams, a fellow Bostonian and cousin of his mother, in his early teen years. When Thomas took him under his wing, he was little more than a runny-nosed child, but, as Thomas as told me, Cullen had an unmatched wit and hunger for knowledge.

The Colonel was an excellent pianist, rivaling my own sister's skill on the pianoforte. Too, he had quite an eye for shooting, even going so far as to deliver up a grouse and several pheasants for our dining pleasure. I felt pity already for any of my countrymen who might face him on the field of battle.

And, yet, here I stood, facing him in a battle of my own.

"I'd wish to speak frankly with you." The words are more a question than a statement, and there is a strong temptation to reprimand him for his cheekiness and speaking as freely as he has thus far. However, I find myself waving my hand in permission. He moves several paces from me, placing a much-felt distance between us.

"My father fought alongside the Jacobites in the '40s, because he was a good Catholic man and hated the English, and after which he was exiled to the Colonies at the King's behest. He is a proud man, my father, and full of opinions." I listen with an interest bubbling through me as he continues.

"My mother, Elizabeth Masen, has lived in the Colonies her entire life. Her great-grandfather settled here in 1686 with his wife and two-year-old son, Philip, from Normandy to escape the persecution of the Huguenots. She hails from a line of Normans so far back, I can scarcely count the depth of blood flow. She was promised to a Protestant preacher fellow, but fell in love with my father, a farmer, and ran away in the middle of the night to marry him."

"Scandalous," I laugh, though honestly it is so.

His smile brightens the night, and his own laughter rustles the leaves on the trees. "Indeed. Her family disowned her, but she's always believed she made the right decision. I was born four months later." I truly gasp this time, and he turns back to me, bowing slightly as though to welcome a judgement upon him. "So, you see, Lady Carlisle, not only am I lowborn, I am also the product of mixed faiths and a host of other sins. Is it not natural I should carry the sin further by calling for rebellion?"

"Rebellion is in your blood, so it would seem," I muse. "Your mother, the Huguenot; your father, and Irishman fighting with Scots for The Young Pretender … I'm rather surprised you've the patience to take orders from your commanding officers, let alone Mr. Jefferson. Speaking of Thomas, you told me you had no private tutor—"

"He is a mentor, your ladyship, not a tutor."

"Even so, it's no wonder you can see nothing beyond your own nose. You've surrounded yourself with traitors." My voice is haughty to my own ears, but hearing of his seditious nature leaves no room for sympathy inside me. I lash my venom upon him because, in truth, I envy that freedom within him. "I've been naught but what I've been instructed and brought up to be my entire life, and the recompense I get for my faith and loyalty …" I trail off, saying far too much already.

"Is what, Lady Carlisle?"

"Nothing." I shake my head and roll my shoulders back, re-centering the emotional well within. "Whatever happens, I hope your war never makes it this far."

"It will," he counters, and when I look up, his eyes are focused only on me. "What words did you still on your lips before?" he asks. "You've spent your life doing as you're bid, and what is your reward? You open your mouth to speak, but the words coming out were fed to you with the silver spoon of privilege."

Red-hot anger burns in me like steel in a smith's forge. "How dare you, Sir?"

But he does not stop; the airs he's taken grow with each word. "Furthermore," he goes on, "you refute all opposition as treason. Pray tell, Lady Carlisle, what has your precious honor ever done for you?"

"I demand you stop this instant!" I scream, trembling and shaken so.

"I will not," says he, jaw clenching. "You call me traitor, but you are here, in the land I was born. I fight for of all those who wish only to be freed from tyranny while you live your life shackled to it. Tell me, Isabella." My name sounds sweet on his tongue despite the passionate anger we hurtle at each other. "Where do your loyalties lie, Countess? Tell me: Have you allowed yourself a moment's reprieve to consider your lot when you are here, alone with neither your child nor the power behind your title, and the Earl of Carlisle takes up with mistresses?"

The palm of my hand stings from where it has met his cheek. His head is turned to the side, where I've sent it with my slap, and I see the muscles twitching and flexing as he steels himself.

"I may be a what you say, Sir, but you do not know me. You do not know the colors I see in a sunrise, nor the embers in my heart for my daughter. You know not the depths of my grief, nor the content of my character. You would sooner betray me and Mr. Jefferson and all those you keep company with than permit an infringement on your precious liberty. Good night, Colonel, and I hope to not lay eyes on you for some time, as I cannot be held accountable for my words and actions, henceforth."

My feet cannot carry me fast enough, and I nearly stumble as I move through the garden. Fury rages in me. Fury and desperation and something I am far less familiar with: want.

Now

I open the door to the incarnation of god. His breeches are slung low on muscled hips, fastened only with a single button as though thrown on with haste in response to a restless dream, and a cotton shirt hangs open and untucked, revealing the majestic plains of his chest.

And I hate him so. He's done as I bid and made himself scarce in the past week, but he was at the table when I came down to dine tonight, and he looked less well than I recalled. Regret and agony were in his eyes, mirroring that which I harbor in my soul.

The things he said to me—the words he dared spew—still ring in my ears. Yes, I hate the truths he's gleaned of me, but I know what I crave so much deeper than bitterness: light. For he is the effulgence, and his airs of freedom and liberties flicker off of him like candlelight on diamonds.

"Edw-"

"Yes." It's one word, a syllable full of meanings, yet it holds one truth now—surrender. "I am a traitor to King and country, but not to you. Never you."

And he is on me, a hand tangled in my midnight hair and a body pressing me into the closing door. I've never been kissed like this, for there is nothing chase or unfeeling about his mouth on me. The moment aches with emotion, moving in me as vastly as a glacier cuts through mountain—a grinding bid for pleasure and need.

This is liberty and I've reached the fight.

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 **A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews and the love!**


	6. The Violet Hour

**A/N: Sorry about the chapter delay. I had a sick baby this week. :) Enjoy! I should have another update for you this weekend/early week. xoxox**

 **The Violet Hour**

I regret nothing … now, that is.

Even as he steals away from my room with the first, faint rays of light slipping over the horizon, I cannot calm my beating heart. Nor should I wish it tempered ever again.

I've known how a wife and husband love—the succumption of a bride for the satisfaction of her lord husband—but I never understood how a woman might allow herself to be pleased for the sake of indulgence. I hadn't known such hedonism existed, truly, until I closed my eyes and was swept under by him.

None but myself and Edward will be privy to the sweet touch of his hands on my bare legs, nor the way my flesh burnt hot and cooled at the same moment in the path following his fingers up into my mouth and back down inside, where I was slick with a craving only he would abate. He spoke fluently to my body in the language of my need.

Somewhere in the time betwixt the withering of my fervent defense of Great Britain and the way Colonel Cullen followed me up the stairs after dinner and not seeing him for days, I began to feel the vertigo of derangement overtaking me. I am at once loyal by default of birth and position while ardently traitor in my desires. He grasped my hand as we passed the library, drawing me in like a moth to a flickering candle, and kissed me there, surrounded by volumes on the histories of empires and others still on a blossoming culture of romanticism—that which Edward is born and built from. It was at that moment I saw the weakness in myself.

He kissed my lips and jaw and neck and collarbone, and when he drew away, apologizing for his ungallant behavior, I pulled him right back. It was I who placed his palm against the silk of my gown, gripping and lifting in unison with an unfamiliar desire to be possessed by the rebellion burning in his eyes and touch. Fingers tore seams from fabric until nothing but flesh met flesh beneath my skirt; the wet abundance of lust filled the room with a musty redolence.

I'd not been worked over or pulled under as I was with him in that quiet room with only the names of hundreds of authors to bear witness to the gasp in my breath or the moan in my throat.

But with the breaking crest of pleasure came a flood of self-loathing. I allowed a man who is not my husband to touch me intimately. More so, I enjoyed the satisfaction he brought with true avidity. He apologized fervidly, making excuses of the night air, the wine at dinner; the bewitchment of my beauty. The few syllables I managed assured him he was not to blame for my wantonness; that my desire for him was purely carnal and a response to my rigorous nature.

When I pushed past his rigid body—every bit of him standing at attention like the soldier he is—and into the hall, I wished terribly and discrepantly that he might follow in suit; wished he would stay away and never see me again. I yearned for many a thing in those moments after those touches, but when he knocked on my door hours later and shattered the fragile glass of my self-control, I knew what my heart truly wished for. Him. Only him.

There are feathers and quilts strewn about the floor. Our ardor lay evident in the room and there is no masking what is plainly present.

I regret nothing.

I drift into a deep, peaceful sleep and do not wake until I'm roused to dress for dinner. What I see reflecting back when I sit upon the padded seat of my vanity are memories as paintings hanging in a museum of my thoughts. My lady's maid pins the curls and piles them atop my head, but I see Edward's hands sliding through loose tresses and tugging as we kissed and loved in the night. She clasps a brooch to my burgundy gown, and I watch as his hands slip over my naked flesh.

There is no need for rouge tonight, for I glow like the sun from the inside out; Dawson, my lady's maid, even compliments me on the healthy luminance in my complexion. There is nothing but beauty and excitement staring at me through the mirror, and I am ready to face the adoration on his face when I reach the landing of the stairs.

But he isn't here.

"Mr. Jefferson, is Mr. Cullen not joining us for dinner?" I question, dread seeping through my pores. I feel murderous rage rising in my blood; I am not one to be put aside—my husband already did as much and I shan't be treated so poorly again.

Thomas offers his arm to escort me into the dining room before answering, "I've sent him as a courier to Boston, my dear." His eyes reveal his suspicions when I gasp and look up at him with horror in my veins. "Urgent Congressional business, Isabella."

"Thomas, really, I …" But I have no words to aptly express what and why I am so disappointed. "Now, truly?"

He stills before the table, looking not at the succulent meal laid out before us or the goblets of purple wines but at my face. His words are soft but heavy with emotion and a hint of fear. "The British will attack, Isabella, and soon, and this will be nothing that we've seen in our lifetime."

My chest burns with the breath I've held.

"Be it alive or stillborn, this is the birth of a nation."


	7. The Truths

**The Truths**

I ache for him. I ache from him.

I yearn for the fruit forbidden me.

The sun is a bleak mass today. Austere for certain, but angry and hot as well, and there is little pardon from its scorching fervor.

Sleep eludes me by night, as I cannot bring myself to allow one of the little African vassal children my sister insists on keeping to stand beside my bed all night, fanning a semblance of cool air over my perspiring body. Children—even slave children—need proper sleep, and there is no bone in my body which will deny a child their dues.

In that very light, the thought of slavery itself is sickening; the act of subjugating another person whose blood runs the same red and whose thirst is quenched by the same water as a freeman, grows more insufferable the longer I bear witness to it in these colonies. We did not own slaves in England. The men and women serving in Sparrowwood Manor are compensated with room, board, and a monthly salary. They are our domestics—never slaves—and those working the farmland are not serfs but farmers with families and free will of their own. If there is a single thing good which my husband did, this is it.

I disallow the lackey's insistence that I permit the little wiry-haired girl, Tula, to fan away the heat and humidity from me as I sit in the library. She is younger than my Liza, and Tula is dark where Liza is light, but underneath every difference which runs no further than skin-deep, they are made of the same seeds and birthed under the same clouds. No, I will not treat this child as I would a mule with a burden to haul, and if I will not acquiesce to the fanning in the stifling night, I will not allow it in the light of day. Instead, I ask the little girl to sit as I read aloud, and it is moments like those I find the pain of separation from my own daughter dulls enough from the diversion to allow another breath.

Today, though, is void of distractions like those, because Colonel Cullen has returned to his hometown as an emissary for Mr. Jefferson, and the only news we've had from the north is that of a horrendous battle on a hill overlooking Boston. I fear greatly for Edward's safety.

I fear he might be dead, slain in a ditch with maggots crawling from gaping wounds in his flesh. Dead and forgotten in the dank air and wet grass. Rotting into nothingness, as the nothingness I have become in the absence of those I care for.

I fear because were are foes in life and position, but lovers in soul. The enemy of his will am I, and as my eyes dart about the cup of now cold tea I hold, I realize how desperately I wish to be anything but. How can it be that mere months might change one so drastically? Or perhaps I have changed nothing, but the world changed under my feet though I behest it stay put. I know not.

These are the only truths I know:

Sometime between the Atlantic crossing and two months ago when I bade farewell to Edward from my bed as he slipped into his blue uniform and sheathed his sword at his side, I found my will challenged. Certainly, I have never been one for sincere politics; so long as the hierarchy of society was recognized, I was content. Then I came to a land of wilderness and even wilder beliefs. I am at at a loss for how to proceed henceforth.

Next, there are a million dangers between myself and France, and my daughter is somewhere in its midst.

Then, my husband has come to the colonies, though I have yet to see this with my own eyes, and he is here to trample the people into submission.

Still, I have lost many things in my life—child, dignity, place and position, a daughter across an ocean, a husband—and I seek to drive my pain away. Be it through sherry or cakes or sleep, I care not so long as the worries fade into oblivion.

Further, I have become the mistress of a man who stands for everything I believed I stood against.

Finally, I know nothing, truly.

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Enjoy!

I've been a writing machine on a new novel I have coming out soon.

Every one of you means so much to me in your encouragement and readership.

Have a wonderful Sunday and a fuckawesome week!

Quinn/Madi Merek


	8. The Heartsong

A Note: Please forgive mistakes. xoxox

* * *

 **The Heartsong**

 ** _September 1775—New York Harbor_**

The wind whips the shawl about my shoulders and rain pelts my face like thousands of pebbles, but I cannot turn my head, nor look away. The ship has docked, the gangplank lowered, and it is only a matter of minutes until she is back in my arms.

A year of separation from my child weighs like an anchor in my soul, but she has been brought back to me by the grace of God and the kindness of Mr. Jefferson. If that I could fly, the clouds and rain and this world at war would not stop me now.

And there she is, taller than my memories recall and exceptionally more beautiful. Her hair is a gift from myself, dark as a raven, though her eyes and stature belong to my lord husband. Never has there been sight more lovely in all the storybooks and theaters and all of creation than her steady steps toward me.

It increases a thousand fold when she finds me in the crowd.

"Mother!" Liza cries. And she is running toward me, and I her.

Tears and rain blend, lost in this watery world of reunion. Our joy is bliss and sanctuary and freedom.

Indeed, if this be the feeling these Patriots fight for—the privilege of having their own children in their arms or land beneath their boots, and be it not dictated by a king or lord—I shall consider myself amongst their ranks.

"Liza, Liza," I sob into her hair. "My darling Liza, you're home."

* * *

 _ **Philadelphia**_

The beauty of having my daughter beside me as we break our fast each morning, sip our tea each afternoon, and sit before the fire to read each night is transcendent. She tells tales of her adventures in France, of the loveliness of the countryside and the companions she had, but her lips never cease from speaking of her joy at our reunion.

This evening as the rain has frozen and flakes of snow fall like powder on the city, Liza sits beside me on the plush sofa and I run my fingers through her hair. Though a heavy price to pay, the million moments of waiting were worth her presence, and I feel nearly whole.

As if the universe heard my heart's song, it's cadence and bray for completion, a knock sounds from the door. The butler answers, and I hear nothing but a hushed mumble of voices and the sounds of the city. Then there is the sounds of heavy boots, wet with slush, and the sound of a throat clearing from the doorway.

Liza looks up first. "Mum…" she calls for my attention, and I lift my eyes from the book I read.

Never has the sight of a man sent such warmth through my veins.

"Edward," I choke as the whisper and my deep gasp collide in my chest.

And he is before me, even in the presence of my daughter, on his knees with his hands pushing into my hair and drawing my mouth down to meet his own. He kisses me once or a dozen times, I cannot say, but the exultation is there in his touch and in the sounds in his throat. Many weeks worth of whiskers have grown into a rich, red beard, and he looks tired and jubilant all at once.

My daughter is young, but not naïve nor disrespectful, and she waits silently until Colonel Cullen remembers himself and releases my lips.

"Mother?" I hear in her voice the truths she seeks. She cares not why or how this man is kissing me, she simply wants to know who and what he is to me.

"Liza," I say breathlessly, "this is Colonel Edward Cullen. Colonel, this is my daughter, Lady Liza Upton."

"As lovely as your mother, your ladyship," he declares. When Edward stands and bows as gallantly as he bowed for me when we were first introduced, and kisses her knuckles, my smile will not be contained to propriety.

"You're here," I whisper in a kiss against his chest when he's bathed and shaved and has slipped into my room after the house has gone to sleep.

His fingers play with the line of my jaw and curve of my lips. "I thought of this face every day, every moment," he tells me, slipping his fingers down lower and lower and gathering my leg up over his hip for access to a place so long missing his presence. "I thought of nothing but you and the home I have with you." His fingers slide into me. "The home I have _in_ you."

My eyes flutter close and my head falls back on the goose down pillow as he molds my body to his will. And my eyes fly open again when not his fingers but his tongue fills me. Wet, perfect kisses worship as he loves me with his mouth.

I am falling apart with the softly tumbling snow and the crackling fire. When he pushes himself up on his hands, holding steady over me, and then into me so we are one and I am stretched and filled with none but him, my brokenness is complete.

* * *

A note: Until next time. xoxo

Madi Merek


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